done and done

Poetry, by it's very nature is secretively personal, whatever the emotional circumstance. I have ones from when I was sure I was in the deepest love or pain (sometimes both at the same time)that I was sure were brilliant at the time, but now I shake my head at how little I knew about either thing at that time. I would never let them go though. They are more than mine. They are the manifestation of something significant enough for me to document.
Because of that personal nature, poetry is so very intimate. To send out a manuscript is a huge step of chance. It feels riskier than other forms of writing. It is standing naked at the Super Bowl and asking everyone what they think of your body, and then compare it to others equally naked.
I just mailed my first collection of poetry to be judged. I'm at the 50 yard line, during half time, and I can't see how much time is left on the clock.


Exciting, isn't it......?

Away from home-

I've been missing my book. I'm out of the house a lot more now. My eyes are so tired by the time I get home. I'm feeling the "practical" of my everyday like distracting grains. I miss my characters and taking them out to play with them to see what happens to them and when. I miss seeing if a situation fits this character or that one better. I have not been completely keyboard quiet.
I have been working on the Walt Whitman Award for Poetry entry. I still have a few weeks. I just might make it to 50 pages without resorting to double spacing. I'm ok with taking the time off to take the stab at the poetry project. I first wrote poetry and didn't think I could write fiction. But I'm missing it.
It'll be good to go back after being away to see if what's there still holds when my mind is different. I'm looking forward to finding out if it does. And if it doesn't, I'll take a break, then go back again to see if it was the writing or my mood.
But I miss it-

Silence - Feminine Voice week 15

Unplug
Turn off
Let go
What is there to do
When the power goes out?
An awareness acknowledges the
Audio electromagnetic gang rape
that is convenience
forces a fear of quiet.
No comfort taken or relaxation
in case the assailant comes back-

Constant contact
forces fear of time alone.
Perpetual stimulation
Under satisfaction
Let go-

What is there to do
When the power goes out?

Autumn- Femine Voice week 13

In the courtyard
White wines in the afternoon
tea and toast with ginger jam at bedtime.
A great lid is taken off.
From no where, crows are every where.
The sky and heat are let out
cirrus clouds as vague as steam
draw out and cool the cauldron earth.

Black wings fan and cool the courtyard.
The metal bench pulls my body's heat
calling the needs of warmth
reflected from amber windows.
Feathers on feathers as they fly-
hollies and box woods shake
replying to the wind they make

This bell is ringing quiet

http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/121

Erika sent me this. I have been going through all my notebooks and I am having a very hard time finding 50 pages, let alone 100. To be honest, I don't have that many good poems. It's always interesting how age and experience changes everything. Some of these are downright embarrassing. I thought they were so very good and insightful and moving when I was 20. Oh, how I was full of pain and love and fear and it was all really really really important. I understand now why I was not not popular at poetry readings with my peers. Sheesh. When I read some love poetry with my mom's friends, they said they were beautiful devotionals to God. I didn't take that well at the time because I was sooooooo in love with the boy I wrote them for. God had nothing to do with it, and if they didn't get my poems, well I don't know what's wrong with them. Kids are goofy. Half my life later, I see where they were coming from, and they are right.

I have a bit more time before the deadline for the poetry contest. We'll see if I can get my soul moving enough to be poetic. It's been a rough couple weeks and I haven't had the focus to write, edit, even reread recently. It'll come.

Water 3

*a tiny mention of some really important water*

Introduction

I am a dandelion
growing alone in a field of roses
with nothing to do
but indulge myself
with the uniqueness of being a weed.

My oneness makes me whole
'cause I have a driven soul
a determination
that can build a bonfire
from a bucket of water
And I intend to set the world alight
with kaleidoscopic flame-

You can't kill a weed
Cut off their heads
poison their hearts
trample their core
They will always return
more alive from the learning
A weed will always survive-

June 22, 2004, revised June 21, 2010

Water 2

I'm glad to be here in Boggs' Creek
to be here with the '-ures' all around me-
the stature of salamanders
the ligature of vines
in the texture of tree bark.
The lecture of water
the future of me
throwing rocks in the water
leaning on trees
to see a salamander on a vine

May 2010

Water

Dare #1 water


Rain to wash me clean
that is not cold
Rain that has a purpose

Rain to wash me clean
of the sickly, smoldering embers
who waste their heart

Rain to wash me clean
to polish the hearth
with drops of thunder

why come in from the rain